


What Happens in the Conference Room

by ocean_of_notions



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Crack, Gen, dysfunctional families and insubordinate officers, remix fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-26
Updated: 2010-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocean_of_notions/pseuds/ocean_of_notions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Admiral’s Support Group for Dysfunctional Families and Insubordinate Officers was the place to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in the Conference Room

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Admiral's Support Group for Dysfunctional Families and Insubordinate Officers](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14145) by da_angel729. 



> Like the original fic, this story is set in some wholly indefinable period of time in which all of these characters are alive, and some of them are married. Just go with it.

Nobody was really sure why or how the Admiral’s Support Group for Dysfunctional Familes and Insubordinate Officers (ASGDFIO, as it’s affectionately termed) came to be, but by the fourth week it had become clear that this was where the party’s at.

For Kara, it started with a list.

The list was posted in the pilots’ ready room. It read: _Major Adama (plus one), Captain and Lieutenant Agathon, Captain Thrace (plus one_ ). Underneath their names were orders to report to the conference room at 1900 hours the following day.

The first meeting of ASGDFIO—gods, but they needed a shorter name—was awkward. Cottle had the brilliant idea of making them all tell one truth and one lie because he was, apparently, finding inspiration in cheesy movies Kara had drunkenly made-out her way through in high school.

“I’m Laura Roslin,” the President said, “President of the Twelve Colonies. I’m not an only child, and I’ve never participated in a drinking game.”

Kara knew the truth, knew the President was cheating, but she had also sworn to take the secret to her grave, so she cheerfully cackled out some bullshit about fixing that second one, then proceeded to get on with her own ‘one truth and one lie.’

“I've been in hack over 40 times since I joined the Colonial Fleet, and I've never frakked in a Viper cockpit.”

In retrospect, she did acknowledge that it might not have been such a great choice of words, but really if Lee had just kept his frakking trap shut they never would have had to sit through this awkward and uncomfortably public cross-examination from his father about just when the two of them had engaged in sexual activities—and _in a Viper_ , of all places—while their respective spouses listened attentively.

Oh yeah, awkward.

 

 

Things loosened up a bit the second week. Cottle had another stroke of brilliance, borrowed from another cheesy flick. That and generations of underage parties with cheap booze and lame music in somebody’s parents’ basement.

“This week at the Admiral’s Support Group for Dysfunctional Families and Insubordinate Officers,” the old doctor said, “we’re going to play a game. Some of you may be familiar with it. It’s called ‘Never Have I Ever.’ The way it works--”

“Lords,” Kara interrupted, “next thing we’ll be playing truth or dare and spin the frakking bottle!”

Cottle wisely ignored her.

Billy Keikeya started even though nobody was sure why he was there in the first place. “Never have I ever….” The poor boy’s voice wavered as he fixed his gaze on Dee, pressed closely to Apollo’s side. “Never have I ever cheated physically or emotionally.”

Kara, Lee, and Dee each dropped a finger. So did Tyrol.

“Never have I ever,” Dee began, “given a girl a mix tape or sung her a song to ask her out.”

Billy gasped. “I told you that in confidence!” he hissed. Nobody was paying attention, however, because Starbuck was laughing at her husband who had also dropped a finger.

“What?” Sam said. “For frak’s sake, Kara, I did have a life before the end of the worlds.”

“Well,” Cottle interrupted before Starbuck could think of a retort, “you’re up next, son.”

Sam nodded and his wife obediently quieted down in expectation. “Never have I ever…had a threesome.”

Helo and Kara put their fingers down.

“Really Sammy?” she said. “For a sports star, that’s just slacking on the job.”

Anders gave his wife a look; she just kicked his foot and whispered something in his ear. He eyed Apollo appraisingly.

Cottle growled his disapproval and eventually the game got back on track. That was, until Helo took his turn.

With a teasing look at Starbuck who was down to her last finger, he said, “Never have I ever frakked in a Viper.”

There were a few chuckles as Starbuck and Apollo both dropped their fingers, Starbuck appearing torn between frustration and pride that she had lost first.

The group suddenly grew quiet, though, and even Kara couldn’t keep in her shock when she saw what had hushed everybody: Admiral Adama himself was calmly seated between Laura Roslin and Colonel Tigh, his thumb tucked into his palm.

The Admiral gave the entire circle his patented stony glare.

Kara just burst into laughter. “So say we all, sir!”

After that, Cottle gave up with trying to keep the bunch in line. “Kids today,” he muttered, patting his pockets in search of a cigarette.

 

The third week, Helo brought one of the last bags of popcorn in the universe, and spent much of the meeting chucking kernels at Starbuck.

Meanwhile, Cottle had them each sharing something, anything, that they had never told anyone before. Kara was telling everyone about her stuffed hedgehog, Mr. Prickles, when the first kernel hit her shoulder. She glared at Helo. The second one went wide, but the third hit her neck.

“Can’t you keep him under control?” Kara growled at Sharon. The other woman just laughed and whispered something in her husband’s ear.

After another half dozen shared confidences—and twice as many popcorn projectiles—Starbuck finally snapped.

Before anyone could even blink—and in the middle of the Admiral’s tearful confession about his dental fixation—she was out of her seat and across the circle, tackling Helo from his chair and sending him sprawling onto the deck.

“Twenty cubits says Helo wins,” Dee called.

“I’ll take that bet,” said the President.

After a minute or three of undignified wrestling on the floor, Helo tapped out. Nobody could blame him really, with Starbuck sitting on his chest and tickling his belly with her left hand while she triumphantly lifted the sack of popcorn into the air with her other hand.

The fourth week, Starbuck showed up tanked off her ass, and impressed them all with her formidable drunk boxing skills.

The fifth week, Chief Tyrol opened the meeting by opening a bottle of hooch. Word got out after that rather raucous meeting, and by the sixth week Cottle was turning people away at the door.

“Absolutely not,” he snapped at Hot Dog. “The ASGDFIO is members only.”

“But I’m an insubordinate officer! I am! Tell Apollo I, I faked my post-flight last week. And the XO smells funny. Sir.”

“Nice try,” Cottle said before whacking Costanza on the head with his clipboard. “Now get out.”

Firmly shutting the hatch in the faces of the herd of wannabes, the aging doctor turned to the assembled group, lounging about with drinks and cigarettes. Starbuck was even shuffling a deck of cards while she laughed and joked with Helo and Athena. On her other side, her husband was conversing quietly with Apollo, which was pretty much a sight unseen. Maybe this group was making progress after all. Still…

“We’ve got to do something about that lot,” Cottle announced.

Most murmured their assent, though Kara was a bit distracted by her attempts to persuade them all into a round of strip triad ( _“In front of the XO?” Gaeta practically squeaked_ ).

Eventually Cottle gathered her attention, and they started discussing ways to handle applicants.

It wasn’t until the Admiral turned to Kara though, that things really got going. “You’re supposed to be a brilliant tactician, Starbuck,” he said. “Now where’s that out-of-the-box thinking?”

“Sorry sir,” she said, “too distracted by all this superior idiocy.”

“Of course,” Dee said with a sigh.

“Now see here Thrace,” Tigh began.

“You got a problem with the ASDF—”

“No, it’s the ASDG,” the Admiral interrupted Cottle.

The conversation only devolved from there.

Kara watched with growing interest. Then, she smiled. Cleared her throat just loudly enough. “I’ve got an idea,” she said.

The idea, they all had to admit, was pretty good. And it would kill two birds with one stone. So by 0800 the next day, the announcement had spread all over the ship: the Admiral’s Support Group for Dysfunctional Families and Insubordinate Officers (ASGDFIO) was taking suggestions for a new, shorter name. The person who came up with the winning name would gain the ultimate prize:

Entry into the most elite club in the whole Fleet. Hell, it was the most elite club left in the entire universe.

The seventh week found them voting on and vetoing the various submissions. They had forsaken the chairs in favor of just sitting in a circle on the floor, passing around a jar of ominously clear liquid.

“Angstoholics Anonymous,” Lee read from the card, eyebrows climbing at the rather creative name.

A chorus of nays rang out. “Not even anonymous,” Billy Keikeya muttered as he took down the votes.

“Dead Cylons Society,” Kara said when Lee passed the stack of submission cards to her.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Colonel Tigh said, earning himself a scowl and a rude gesture.

“It doesn’t even make sense,” Gaeta said, taking a swig of the Chief’s brew. “It sounds like we’re a society of dead cylons, instead of a society in favor of dead cylons, which is clearly the intended meaning—”

Helo coughed quite loudly.

“I’m sitting right here,” Sharon groused.

“Your turn then,” Kara said and passed the cards to her.

“Right,” Athena said, taking a moment to compose herself. “The Battlestar Bunch.”

“Absolutely not!” Roslin said, leaning across Helo to snatch the cards from the other woman. “Alright, how about Hades’s Angels?”

“What the frak?” Kara said. “Who are they calling an angel?”

“Or Hades?” the Admiral said. “What else have we got?” Laura passed the stack his way, and he peered at the next card through his glasses.

They waited.

Finally, “I like this one,” he said. When the rest of them heard the name, there was a long, thoughtful pause.

“It’s classy,” Kara said, just before knocking back a shot of booze.

“What would you know about class?” Dee said, though she too looked pleased.

“I think I read a book about it once.”

“Well now,” Cottle said, “let’s put it to a vote. All in favor, say ‘aye.’”

The motion passed unanimously.

“So Doc, who’s our newest member?” Tyrol said.

Cottle looked over his list, and paused. “You’re not gonna like it,” he said. And they didn’t.

“But he’s not an insubordinate officer!” Gaeta protested.

“Or dysfunctional family,” Roslin said. “He simply cannot be a member of the Admiral’s Support Group for Dysfunctional Families and Insubordinate Officers.”

“Too bad,” the doctor said, “deal’s a deal. Besides, you all just voted. We’re not the Admiral’s Support Group for Dysfunctional Families and Insubordinate Officers anymore. As of today, we are….”

“…The After Dinner Club is now in session,” Cottle said, on the eighth week. “For our first meeting, we welcome our newest member, Gaius Baltar. To start, how about we go around and each say one unusual talent we have.”

Gaius smiled at Six as she leaned her chin on his shoulder. When she spoke, he could feel her whispered words as wind against his skin.

“All of this has happened before,” she said as a blushing Laura Roslin pulled out a tube of lipstick.


End file.
